


The life to come

by isitandwonder



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Coming Out, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Rugby
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-09
Updated: 2015-07-09
Packaged: 2018-04-08 12:42:55
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,666
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4305540
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/isitandwonder/pseuds/isitandwonder
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John meets up with his old rugby mates and is coerced into admitting the truth about his life with Sherlock. Just fluff, no smut, but I just felt like it...</p>
            </blockquote>





	The life to come

**Author's Note:**

> There's now a beta'd and extended version of this story at http://archiveofourown.org/works/5929291

"Ah, John, it's so good to see you, mate! Lads, look who turned up! I told you he would pop in", Jimmy Fitzpatrick - nearly 6 ft 5, broad-shouldered, ginger - was grinning from ear to ear, face slightly flushed equal parts with excitement and intoxication. He had spotted John while carrying the next round from the bar to where a group of rugbyplayers was perched in a corner of the modern gastropub.

"John Watson, you nasty old bugger", Paul 'Clement' Attlee shouted over the all-enveloping noise composed of chatter, mainstream music and laughter, rising from the table and opening his arms to embrace his old teammate. He was at the far end, so when he rose, the rest of the men turned to welcome the new guest. They were six alltogether: beside Jimmy and Paul there were Marc, Toby, Sean and Julian. They had all played together for Blackheath Rugby Club what seemed now - at least to John - a lifetime ago.

"Hey, guys", John tried to wave a casual hello, but was forcefully pulled into an embrace by Paul, wincing a little as the shovellike hands of the former forward patted his back affectionately. John registered that he was about an hour late, and the men were probably already well into their third round.

After Paul, the other players welcomed John with loud cheers and shouted obsceneties.

"Lousy bastard!"

"Oi, you twat!"

"Look at you, bonsai!"

"You got fat and lazy, Watson!"

"Oh, I really missed this", John sighed, trying to sound grumpy, but barely managing to hide a fondly smile, feeling touched by the easy familiarity of his old teammates. He had not seen them since before he went to Afghanistan, and so was pleasantly surpised how cordially his turning up at their annual reunion was received.

Everybody moved a bit to accomodate the newcomer, and as a pint appeared out of nowhere before him, John started to relax a bit and actually felt quite comfortable.

They all clinked glasses, and then someone asked: "So, John, long time no see. What have you been up to lately?"

"Well, I invaded Afghanistan, got shot, and was sent back home."

There was a short silence, then Marc whispered under his breath: "A remarkable achievement, hitting such a small target..."

Everybody roared with laughter, including John.

"Yeah, they realy have apt snipers over there", he admitted, which was answered with more frantic giggles.

"Boys, behave!" Paul intervened, "Our John is a hero, please, show him some respect!" He sounded genuinely indignant.

The men tried hard to quieten themselves, but to no avail, as Toby shouted "Aye, for god, and Queen and country!", while Sean and Julian simultaneously started to intonate "Land of Hope and Glory". Some of the other guests turned their heads, but the men didn't bother.

"As a friend of mine always says, don't make people into heros", John mumbled a tiny bit self-conscious, staring down as if searching for something at the bottom of his glas.

Suddenly they all fell silent. Someone coughed, slightly uneasy.

"But now you are back home, John. What are you up to these days, you old philanderer?" Jimmy asked, winking conspiratorial.

"I bet he has at least two strings to his bow", Paul presumed.

What a fitting metaphore this was, John thought to himself. Sherlock would appreciate it.

"Oh, you highly overestimate my sex appeal", John tried to placate the direction the discussion was taking. "Just look at me, I am an invalided middleaged army doctor who gets a little podgy round the waist."

"Fair enough, but last thing I heard, you were running around with that queer detective bloke", Julian threw in. "I mean, all this kerfuffle, catching thugs, it must pull birds by the dozen."

"If you only knew...", John exhaled, recognising a second too late that he had actually said that aloud.

Six faces turned to him in anticipation.

"Well?", Paul raisend an inquiring eyebrow.

"Oh, come on, boys. You don't really expect me to spill the beans, do you?" John could barely hide his dispair.

But his former teammates just kept staring at him expectantly.

Ok, in for a penny, in for a pound. John huffed, looked down at the scratched table, then up again, meeting the inquiring gazes of his old mates. 

\--------------------------------

In retrospect it shouldn't have come as a surprise. Not at all. If John was honest with himself, he had to admit that he had it coming for quite some time - no pun intended.

From the very first meeting he had assumed that Sherlock was gay - which was absolutely fine with him, not only because of his sister, but, well, John just wasn't petty or biased. Everyone to his own liking. Who was he to judge? John saw himself not exactly as the prime example of satisfying adult relationships with either gender, his love life being nonexistent, so that he was coming round to the point where it didn't matter if it was with a man or a woman, as long as he got eventually laid.

As a doctor and a soldier, he had met stranger men than Sherlock. But never anyone as brilliant. John was confident enough to acknowledge other people's talent, even when they outshone his own, so that he did not suffer from feeling inferior in the face of someone as gifted as his new flatmate obviously was.

And sometimes he was just so beautiful to look at. There had been moments - on cases, running through the streets of London, at crime scenes, during interviews - when John had looked over to Sherlock, and his breath had caught in his throat at the sight of the man - all pale skin, luminous eyes, high cheekbones, slender frame and black curls.

Of course, there had been other times - Sherlock covered in blood or other boodily fluids, ransacking the flat while searching for cigarettes (or something a bit stronger), lounging on the sofa for days on end without changing out of his pyjama bottoms - when the genius had just been an annoying, tedious nagger, who harassed John on his more and more infrequent dates, affronting his spare girlfriends when John was reckless enough to bring them back to their flat.

It was after one of those encounters that it happened. It wasn't a life-shattering experience - not at all - in fact, it felt like the inevitable consequence of the developements of the last few months.

Sherlock had come home from Barts, carrying a suspicious looking parcel - suspicious at least to John, who feared he knew what was in it - but Joan, who wanted to "get to know your flatmate a bit better", as she put it, had felt the urge to ask, not listening as John explained that she really didn't want to know, chastening him as patronizing. Of course, when she came face to face with the severed head in a buckett, being currently macerated by maggots, she first made for the loo and then for the door, never to be seen again.

Sherlock had just shook his head in incomprehension - she was a nurse, after all, should have had a stronger stomach - and John, after the first disappointment at being ditched again had faded, had joined him, finally realising that it was utterly futile to attempt dating women with Sherlock around.

So he had opened of bottle of single malt, committedly knocked back half the amber liquid to gather dutch courage, and then propositioned quite bluntly: "We should have a go at it.", stepping into Sherlock's personal space, distracting the detective from his new, but sadly dead, friend long enough to pull him into a long deep kiss.

Sherlock seemed puzzeled at first, but didn't shrink back. In fact, after he had overcome his surprise, he responded quite enthusiastically. Soon, the head was forgotten - leading to a kitchen floor covered with maggots the next morning - and the two men withdrew to Sherlock's bedroom, where things got very heady very quickly.

It all just seemed so utterly easy - soft pale skin, strong muscles, wet lips - and only when Sherlock bend John over and pushed into him determinedly did John allow himself the fleeting thought that he had never been on the receiving end of this kind of administration, but after Sherlock hit his prostate, he threw these thoughts to the wind and just went for it, clinging on for dear life.

After this, there was no turning back. John slightly panicked when he woke next morning in Sherlock's bed, but a dedicated blow job after he really had nothing to complain about. So, this was how his life had become, and wasn't that just fucking brilliant?

\-------------------------------------------------

John pulled himself a little bit more upright, and said: "I have actually met the love of my life. It's all quite fresh and new to me, so I would rather appreciate it if you could stop pestering me."

"Of course." Jimmy said. "What's her name?"

"Age?"

"Size?"

"She's quite a looker, I bet?"

"Open-minded, in a, you know,... permissive sense?"

"Jesus, guys!" John exclaimed. "Does everyone of you keep his brain between his legs?"

They all looked at each other, before starting giggling sheepishly.

"Oh. My. God. Ok, have your cake and eat it: 35. 6 ft. 3. Slender, black haired, quite exotic features, looking a bit alien, to be honest. And, yes, he is very adventurous in bed. Shags me three ways to sunday, to be honest."

Six yaws dropped simultanioulsy. Twelfe eyes nearly popped out of their sockets.

John stared back at them, unblinking. It was suddenly very quiet in their corner.

"Problem?", he finally asked a bit annoyed, attempting at a crooked smile.

They came out of their state of collective shock all at once, spluttering in unison:

"Well..."  
"That's..."

"Jesus, mate..."

"I thought..."

"I didn't know..."

"But, why..."

John actually felt totally at a loss. He had absolutely no idea how to explain to these men what had happened between him and Sherlock Holmes. So he backed down.

"I'm sorry. But you asked." He pressed his lips together, looked down, then faced the group again. "I think I better go." He started to get up, suddenly desperately wanting to flee the whole awkward situation, leaving this relict of his past behind as well, never having to look back.

His fomer teammates shared a look, and then Jimmy, who sat next to John, put his big hand on his arm, stopping him.

"Care to elaborate?"

Very slowly, John sat down again.

"You really want to know?" he asked, bewildered and slightly incredulous.

"Sure", Toby sounded intrigued. "It's not every day that your mate turns into a nancy."

The rest of them sighed disapprovingly.

"What?" Toby exclaimed.

"Bit not good", Paul pointed out. 

"I think the correct term is poof", John volunteered drily.

Again, shocked silence, but then the men burst into laughter, patting John on his back.

"Well, sissy, the next round is definetly yours!" Sean announced, wiping his eyes. "And don't you dare to get us something sweet and sticky! Real ale for real men!"

After John got the drinks and sat back down, all eyes were again on him.

"So, how come you changed sides?" Julian inquired, sounding honestly interested.

John thought about his answer for a minute. Then he replied: "I am really not sure I did. Well, obviously, I'm fucking a bloke, but that's not the point. He could be...I don't know...a reptillian, or a mermaid, for all I care, it wouldn't make a difference. It's just him, you know? Well, probably not..." Listening to his own words, John cringed inwardly at the inandequacy he was showing in articulating his feelings for Sherlock. The detective would be embarrassed by John's stammering, and rightly so.

"And how does it feel, you know, taking it up the arse?" Marc whispered, sounding intrigued.

"Why don't you find out for yourself?" John retorted, actually a bit startled by the rather intimate question.

"Are you offering?"

"Fuck off!" John shouted, feeling caught off guard.

"Girls, calm down!" Paul demanded.

John suddenly felt a lump in his throat. "You are the first peolple I'm telling about this, you know..."

"Yeah, cheers mate," Jimmy interrupted, "but can we please talk about what happened at Twickenham now?"

And to John's great relieve, the conversation went back to rugby.

\-------------------------------------

Two hours and four pints later John's phone chimed.

_Where are you? - SH_

**I told you, I was meeting some mates at the pub. - JW**

_Tedious. - SH_

_Dull. - SH_

_Boring. - SH_

_Come home. - SH_

**Leave it, Sherlock. I'm actually having good clean fun. - JW**

_I can offer something intriguingly contrary back at Baker Street. - SH_

**I'm sure you can. - JW**

"Whom are you texting, Watson?"

"Your better half, I bet."

"Tell him to come over, so we can have a good look at him."

_**Why don't you join me? - JW**_

_Fuck off, John. - SH_

**Come on, a night out with your boyfriend. - JW**

_You are drunk. - SH_

**Tipsy. - JW**

_Come. Home. Now. - SH_

**Are you going to take advantage of me? - JW**

_Is that really you texting? - SH_

**Can't you tell? - JW**

_Come home. I want you to suck me off. - SH_

**Patience. - JW**

_You are a pain in the ass. -SH_

**I take that as a compliment. - JW**

"If you don't put down your phone now I swear I will smash it!" Jimmy announced, trying to wriggle the phone out of John's hand.

_Sorry, I have to let go now. - JW_

"So, is he coming? Do we meet him?" Sean's speech slurred, revealing how pissed he was.

"I'm afraid not." John actually felt a bit disappointed. "But, honestly, it might be for the better. He can be quite ... difficult."

"But I'm sure you know how to handle that", Julian chuckled.

John just smiled.

\-------------------------------------------------

"And then she tied me to the kitchen chair...", Marc was in the middle of a rather saucy story about his ex-girlfriend when suddenly all faces turned towards the entrance. The table fell silent. John was the last to catch on, and something tingled deep down in his stomach as he saw Sherlock, scanning the bar, and then, after locating him, striding over to their corner.

John took in the sight: Sherlock wore his Belstaff coat, collar turned up, showing off his sharp cheekbones. The dark cloth supplied a daunting contrast to his pale skin, mirrored by black curls falling over his forehead.

As he reached the table he didn't deign a look at anybody but John.

"Ready?" he asked in his deep velvet baritone voice.

Before John could answer, Jimmy got up and offered his hand. 

"Hi! You must be John's boyfriend."

Sherlock inspected the outreached hand with a kind of baffled awe, but didn't condescent to actually take it.

John had been momentarily frozen, trying to come to terms with this actually happening: 

SHERLOCK MEETING HIS FRIENDS IN A PUB!

But as the world continued to turn, he thought he might as well start breathing again.

"Yes, this is Sherlock. Sherlock, this is ... everyone", he finished lamely.

Sherlock just arched an eyebrow, glancing at the simperingly grinning group of men.

"Evening", he greeted dismissively. Directed at John, he continued: "Are you finished with your shenanigans here? I'd rather prefer you come with me now."

"We should get you a drink before", Marc offered.

Sherlock gave him an evaluating look and opened his mouth to speak exactly what was on his mind, but John cut him short: "Thank you, but I'm sorry, we have to leave. Summoned by Scotland Yard. It's urgent. It was really nice to meet you lot again. See you!"

And with that, John got up, grabbed Sherlock's arm and dragged him out of the pub. When the door closed behind them, he pulled Sherlock close and snogged him thoroughly on the pavement.

"You actually came. I can't believe it!"

"As you refused to come home... You know the saying about the mountain and the prophet?"

"Well, whatever, let's go home. I desperately need to take you to bed, Sherlock Holmes."


End file.
